Roxas by Night
by Miss Alise
Summary: As awesome as it might sound, I really wasn't looking to get sucked into a world of amateur espionage, suspicious gang lords, seriously blue eyes and Triple-Cheese Tuesdays.  I just wanted money for cat food.   Axel/Roxas slash, and really foul language.
1. I'm Dropping This F Bomb

Roxas by Night

Chapter 1: I'm Dropping this F-Bomb.

* * *

><p>Ask me to make a list of all the things I hate. Go on, do it. I dare you.<p>

Number one: solicitors. Stop coming to my fucking house, stop calling my fucking phone, stop bugging me all the fucking time! I don't want to buy your product. If I did, I would already have it. Thank you.

Number two: milk. Ok, I like to think that society is pretty spot on about identifying craziness when they see it, but the first dude who saw a nursing cow and thought it was a good idea to exploit it was clearly insane. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those crazy-ass hippies who thinks we should 'free the cows' and let them run wild or something, but milk is gross. I mean, come on, I stopped drinking from my mom a long time ago, folks.

Number three: paying taxes. Yeah, yeah, I know. My taxes help the vitality of the country, yadda yadda. Whatever. I'd like to see some of those taxes actually help me out every once in a while, rather than just suckle on my pocketbook. And no, I do not have some sort of oral complex. The cow reference and the suckling reference were in no way related to each other.

Number four: working. I'm not even talking about the nine-to-five shit, because you will never find me sitting behind a desk—I'm talking about working period. I don't need some psychologist to tell me the deep-seated issue I had with regularly attending school. It's pretty damn simple. Don't tell me what to do, don't tell me when to do it. The first legit job I had was as a construction worker, and it seemed like a good fit. I could do manual labor, I could work under the sun, I liked the heat. I really thought it was going to work out. Until, that is, the overseer told me I couldn't eat on the clock. Fuck him. I'll eat whenever the hell I want.

Number five: being poor, something which I unfortunately hate a lot more than number four. Let me tell you something, alright? I'm not one of those assholes who looks in his bank account and complains because that BMW he just bought took his balance down from three million to slightly less than three million. No fucking way. You'll never find me paying more than twenty bucks to go out to eat, and if I want a steak, I'm damn well going to cook it myself. I don't own a car, and I'll give you a little hint. It's not that I don't want one.

The first time I figured out that you couldn't make a living without working, I blew one hell of a gasket. Because nothing is shittier than being so god-damned dirt-poor that you aren't sure you'll be able to eat. If you don't know that first-hand, pat yourself on the back; you are one lucky fucker.

So, when I got fired from my job at The Creamery for cussing out a bratty-ass five-year-old, I suspected I might be screwed. And you may not predict this about me, because of my handsome, laid-back exterior, but I tend to freak out about shit. Really freak out. I'm talking hyperventilating, panic-attack inducing, industrial strength freak outs that leave me a bit incapacitated for longer than they probably should.

I'd stopped counting how many times I'd gotten fired after the tenth, but it never got any easier. Knowing that you're living paycheck to paycheck and then suddenly getting that paycheck ripped away from you is one of the worst feelings ever. Butterflies in your stomach in the worst possible way. Like someone reached in and ripped out some things you're pretty sure are really important if you want to, you know, keep on living.

And it's not like I went into each new job thinking 'Ok, how can I fuck this one up in the quickest way possible?' I just...have a temper. I'd pull the 'rotten upbringing' card if it weren't so damn overused, but it's sort of true. Chalk it up to years and years of unrealized frustration, or whatever the hell else you want to chalk it up to. Whatever. I just get pissed off. I'm not a bad guy. I don't get off on bitching at little children. I was not raised to be an asshole (even though I kind of was) and I really do go into every new job thinking that maybe I might be able to make it a few months without being close to homeless again.

But I was running out of options. I'd only gotten the job at The Creamery by dumb luck and a few well placed contacts, and the number of places who would consider me after seeing my shitty resume was dwindling fast. To get all metaphorical on you, the handful of sandy opportunity that I'd been given at birth was now a few pitiful grains. It fucking sucked. There'd been times before when my options had seemed pretty damn few and far between, but this was really the first time when I didn't have anything to turn to. At the end of the month, when the landlord came knocking for the rent which was a bit past due already, I didn't know where I'd get it. Or even if I'd be able to get it at all, and how shitty would that be? Somehow, flying by the ass of my pants, I'd been able to avoid falling into the category of 'homeless loser', but I wasn't sure how much longer that would work out.

So, I guess you could kind of say that I went a teeny tiny bit insane. Temporarily, of course. And I think it was pretty justified, right? I mean, I couldn't look backward without asking myself when I started to fuck up so badly, and I couldn't really look forward without seeing that eviction notice lurking in my future. It was like being trapped between a rock and a hard place—between shit and more shit. Except it was really starting to look like something I couldn't get away from.

Mr. McDuck, the old man who owned The Creamery, was nice about letting me go. Well, as nice as an employer can be when trying to fire someone who's kind of an asshole. It hadn't been a bad gig, really, doling out overly-expensive ice cream to kids whose parents could afford to dish out the dough without batting an eyelash. The free ice cream was good (my loathing of milk doesn't extend to delicious ice cream, by the way), and none of my co-workers were jerks. But, fuck it all, I was bored out of my fucking mind. That kid was sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was also undeniably a total brat. Listen, I'm sorry we were out of banana ice cream that day. You like banana ice cream? Well, kid, here's a news flash for you. So does the rest of the world. Banana ice cream is fucking amazing, and you aren't the only person on the planet who has figured that out. So, suck it up and buy a double scoop of vanilla to drown your sorrows. The kid might have caught me at a bad time, but really, something like that was bound to happen sooner or later.

I got the "You're a good kid, deep down, Axel" speech. Let's ignore the fact that I'm twenty-two years old—hence, not really a kid anymore, thank you very much—and the fact that I've heard that line so many times I could paper my walls with it. What really got me was that you could tell he believed it. That half-senile old man believed that he was somehow selling me short by firing me. As if I didn't already feel guilty enough for making a five-year-old cry, now I felt like a total dick for letting down Mr. McDuck. Way to go Axel. Let's just say that it wasn't my most triumphant moment, and leave it at that.

* * *

><p>I'm just going to come right out and say this—my apartment was a piece of shit. A pigsty, if you will. It wasn't just my fault, though. I mean, yeah, I have some sort of pathological desire to avoid cleaning things whenever possible, but the place was already trashed when I moved in. Peeling paint, rusting bathtub, dripping kitchen faucet, the whole deal. Bugs? Of course. Water drippage from the roof? Fuck yes. Greenish-brown shag carpet that looks like something my sick cat vomited up? Need you even ask? The place hadn't been remodeled since...well, ever probably. But the rent was cheap, and the landlord didn't ask a lot of questions as long as you paid it on time.<p>

I know what you fuckers are probably thinking. It's the same damn thing everyone thinks when they get a good look at me. Druggie. Alcoholic. Addicted to something, whatever it might be. Take your pick. No one is that much of a fuck up without a catalyst and some useful substances. At least, that's certainly what the prostitute from upstairs would tell you, and she probably knows better than anyone. But, congratulations to me—I managed it. Not that I didn't have the opportunity to get hooked on something. Where I grew up, a single block held a choice selection of fifty goddamn different poisons. The rest of the populace wasn't nearly as skilled as I was at screwing themselves over, and they all needed a bit of help.

But seriously, I never touched any of that shit. I don't care who tells you otherwise. I am one sober-ass fuck-up, and proud of it. No matter how shitty my life got, nothing could have made me turn to that. Again, if you feel like pulling out the 'bad childhood' card, go ahead. I don't really care. I mean, sure, neither of my parents had the same hang-ups about drugs that I did, and both of them had quite the taste for cheap booze, but I'd really rather just forget about it. I don't do it because I don't want to do it. End of story, moving on.

As I unlocked my apartment door and pushed it open, a really rancid smell hit my nose. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but it never got much more bearable. I could hear the desperate meowing of Francisco, my bitchy cat, from somewhere in the living room, but I couldn't do much about it. The first thing on the agenda was to open some windows, then we'd see where life took us from there.

Even when I did manage to make it to class in high school, I didn't pay much attention to what the teachers were telling me. Still, I was pretty fucking sure that an apartment shouldn't smell like yogurt if you hadn't bought any in over a year. I could have been wrong—it happens often enough—but I didn't think so. It kind of sounded like one of those common sense things people were always talking about. I looked at my sink, which had dishes piled as high as the fucking Eiffel Tower and so haphazardly that they would probably fall to their deaths any second. If the smell came from anywhere in my apartment, that stack of dishes was probably the culprit.

Well, I'd always lived by the saying 'no time like tomorrow'. That's right, isn't it? Whatever.

Francisco had pulled up the carpet in the living room. Little fucker. Probably trying to get back at me for leaving him alone all day. I'd tried to train him to sit on my neck so I could carry him around with me, but he wasn't having any of that shit. He just sat on the ground and gave me that look. You know. _The look._ The one that says I've got five seconds to shut the fuck up or he'll do it for me. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. So, anyway, he really can't complain about being lonely—it's his own damn fault.

"You're kind of an asshole, you know that?" He didn't reply. I'd stopped expecting him to humor me a long time ago. As much as I bitched about the little guy, I don't know what I'd do if I got kicked out of that apartment. He wouldn't be able to live on the streets with me, and I'm not sure I could have handled giving him away. Losing my job was bearable, losing my cat was not. He was the only thing that hadn't abandoned me. I tried not to think about the fact that he didn't have much of a choice in the matter, since he couldn't open the front door. Lack of opposable thumbs, and all that. Sucks for him.

He walked over to his cat dish and sent me the most pitiful meow I'd ever heard. We were on the last bag of cat food, and I didn't really have the funds to buy another one. If he wasn't such a fat-ass, we wouldn't have this problem. He was like some sort of furry trash disposal that only accepted dried up brown pellets. If I were ever honest with myself (which I was not, in case you were pissing yourself to know) I would have been able to figure out that I wasn't the only one who'd been getting skinnier.

No, Sir. Avoidance is the name of my game. I compete like a pro and win every fucking time.

* * *

><p>It started with an advertisement in the paper. Cliché, much? A leaf from the classifieds. A page of job ads floating around in the middle of the street like some fucking gift delivered straight from the hands of God. Not that I'm religious, or anything, but that's sure as hell what it seemed like. The first few ads were for a neighborhood canvassing position, and there was no way in hell I'd even think about it. If your memory is so shitty that you can't figure out why, refer back to item number one on my list.<p>

Maybe it _was _some sort of divine intervention. On any normal day, there's no way I would have been walking down that street when I was. But I'd recently been fired from my job, in case you missed that earlier, and I wasn't really thinking about where I probably shouldn't be walking in the middle of the night. I had bigger fucking fish to fry, really. So, again, I know what you're thinking. Amazing, isn't it? I've got quite a nice talent for ESP, if I do say so myself. 'Axel,' you're thinking to yourself, 'if you lost your job, why were you out wandering the streets instead of looking for another one?'

You know what? Fuck you. I'd like to see you think clearly when your life seems like it's pretty much fucking over. I'd already looked, ok? Everywhere I'd gone, they'd taken one look at my resume and chucked it into the scrap bin. I was out wandering the streets because I didn't know what else to do. Like how sometimes you lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder why the hell you're so fucking bored, but you don't bother getting up to find something to do. Like someone taking away your pencil and telling you to write an essay. What the fuck are you supposed to write it with? Blood? No thank you.

The funny thing is that I never could figure out why getting fired from The Creamery made me so damn depressed. It wasn't like it hadn't happened a million times before, and in the exact same way. But somehow, I knew that this was it. That ice cream shop had been my last chance, and I'd blown it. Do you know how sucky that feels? It's like getting back that final exam that you actually forced yourself to study for this time, and seeing a big fat F splashed across the front. Pretty damn sucky. I don't know why it felt like that, but it did. So, shoot me if I was wandering aimlessly instead of looking for gainful employment.

Traverse Town has three districts, if you've never been there. Don't ask me why; I don't fucking know. Something about being able to isolate parts of the town in case of a terrorist attack I think. Anyway, the First District is the shopping district. Whatever you want, you can find it there—restaurants, fancy boutiques, shitty second-hand stores, dance clubs. Take your pick. It also happens to be the home of a certain ice cream shop run by a certain old man, but that's neither here nor there. The Second District is the fancy district. High end houses, ritzy hotels, that kind of shit. It's where the money is, and most people really never have any reason to go there. Too much cash for my taste. You remember that BMW jerk I was talking about earlier? Yeah, if he existed, he'd live in the Second District.

So, I guess you could probably figure out that the Third District is kind of the shitty one. You were either rich enough to afford real estate in the the Second, or you were lame enough to live in the Third. There's really nowhere in this town that's as bad as where I grew up—a rotten place called Hollow Bastion, not that you really needed to know that—but the Third District is as close as it gets. It just so happened that I was wandering around one of the more skeezy back alleys that the Third had to offer that night, and I just so happened to see that stupid piece of paper that would change my life.

Under the ad begging for canvassers (yeah, right) there was an ad looking for cash-register drones to work at a pizza place. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but it would have to do. Now, you might be asking yourself 'what the fuck is wrong with a pizza place?' Technically nothing, other than the fact that it's always hot and smelling like sweaty man-meat, or that everyone buys pizza, even bitchy little five-year-olds. Pizza is delicious. It's everything I'm not looking for in a man—fatty, crusty, and slightly droopy. But, see, employers don't usually take very well to their employees sampling the wares, so to speak. Getting fired for stealing would really not look so good on my previously glorious resume. But, it didn't take moreme more than a few seconds to decide that the risk was worth it. To be brutally fucking honest with myself, I didn't have much of a choice.

* * *

><p>"So, why should I hire you?"<p>

Three and a half days after me coming across the ad, I was sitting in one of the way-too-fucking-comfortable booths at 3.14 (the pizza place), and wondering why the hell this blond-haired, blue-eyed shrimp was the one interviewing me. He wasn't bad looking, but he didn't look much more than eighteen years old, and certainly not old enough to be using the first person tense as though he might actually be the one deciding whether I got hired or not.

"Look, I'm not telling you this so you'll pity me and hire me out of the goodness of your heart. But if I don't get a job in the next week, I'm going to find myself homeless pretty fucking fast. I know my resume is pretty bad. And I can't really blame anyone else, that one's on me. But I have to find something."

He looked at me appraisingly over the top of his folded hands perched in front of his mouth. I know what he saw. Ridiculously red hair (which is totally natural by the way, and I'd happily show you some proof if you weren't a complete stranger), a tattooed face, long, skinny arms that looked a bit skinnier than they used to since I hadn't been eating too much. I fucking know what he saw. Who he saw. What I don't know is how felt about it. His eyes—did I mention they were _blue_?—didn't give anything away.

"Usually people just tell me it's because they like pizza."

I think that fucker was laughing at me. Deep inside his shriveled, eighteen-year-old heart.

"Who doesn't like pizza? If you hired people just because they like pizza, you'd have more employees than fucking customers."

Now, you might not have noticed, but I have a tendency to cuss a whole fucking lot. (I wasn't trying to be funny right there, by the way, that f-bomb just sort of slipped in). Blame those R rated action flicks I watched when I was a kid and didn't have cable, or blame parents who didn't give a shit how I talked as long as I never bothered talking to them. I don't care. But I usually try to tone it down during interviews—seriously. I don't know what it was about this guy that made it seem like I could cuss as much as I wanted without changing his opinion of me, but something did. I felt like he'd hate me because he wanted to, not because I had a dirty mouth left over from those rebellious teenage years.

"Alright," he said, glancing quickly down at my application again, "Axel. Let me lay it out for you. I run a family establishment. People come in here for their anniversaries, for their graduation parties, for their first dates, for their grandparents' eightieth birthdays—you name it. If a kid needs change for the arcade, he can't be afraid to come up to the register and ask for quarters. Your application says that you've been fired from every job you've ever had. So, take a moment to look at it from my point of view, and tell me again why on Earth I would hire you."

I know it was stupid, but I never told you I wasn't. I'm a fucking idiot—always have been, always will be. Proud of it. But sassing off to the guy who was going to decide my immediate employment future was probably a bit more stupid than I usually shoot for.

"Because I like pizza?"

"Lord, save me from people who think they're comedians," he muttered, unfolding his hands so he could rub tiredly at his eye. "You know what? Fine. You can have the job. I need someone to reach all the tall stuff in the kitchen anyway. But only on two conditions."

He stood up from the booth, grabbing my application on his way. Halfway back to the register, he turned around and looked at me expectantly, so I got up to follow him.

"You have to clean up the way you talk. Like I said, this is a family place. We've got little kids in here all the time, and even if you think they aren't listening, they are. Trust me. They hear every single word that comes out of your mouth, and they see every single thing you do. Other than that, you have to try looking a little bit happier. I don't really care if your life isn't going the way you want it to, and neither do the customers. They want to be served by someone whose face says he likes his job, even though they couldn't care less whether or not he actually does. Is that clear?"

I nodded, waiting outside the office door as he disappeared inside. I didn't know whether the 'Managers Only' sign technically applied right now, but it seemed like a good idea to pay attention to it anyway. My mind was still reeling from the idea that I might actually be getting a job for absolutely no fucking reason.

"Yes, Sir."

It didn't matter that the guy was a good foot and a half shorter than me, or that he looked like he shouldn't even have a fucking high school diploma yet. When he handed me the employment agreement form and told me to fill it out, I shut the hell up, and did what he said. That kid was scary, damn it.

Later that night, as I dished out a cup of that nasty-ass kibble into Francisco's bowl, I couldn't help the feeling of relief that sort of raped me. I had a job. I could make money. I could feed my cat.

Thank God.


	2. Welcome to Three Point One Four One Five

Roxas by Night

Chapter 2: Welcome to 3.1415926...Whatever.

I was fairly certain that people couldn't get any more nasty than what I'd already encountered. I mean, I'd had some pretty fucking disgusting jobs (that cattle ranch, a janitor at that elementary school, working at that car wash) and I'd seen some pretty fucking disgusting stuff. But it was all peanuts compared to the shit at 3.14.

Of course, there were plenty of accidents—it seemed like every five goddamn minutes some kid dropped her coke on the ground, or some over-stressed father lost his grip on a tower of pizza boxes—but that wasn't really the problem. After the janitor job, I could pretty much deal with all that shit. The problem with 3.14 is that it sells pizza, something that people really _really_ like. And the pizza that 3.14 sells is so damn delicious that it's ridiculously fucking easy to keep shoving piece after piece into your mouth and not even realize that your stomach is half a slice of processed pig away from exploding. Before the day I started training, the day after I'd first met Roxas Shibizaki, I'd had no idea that a single ten year old girl could shove that much food down her gullet without dying.

My training had finally ended at ten o'clock the night before, and I'd returned the next day for my first official shift as a certified cash-register worker. Score, I know. It was in between the lunch rush and the early-dinner rush, and there just so happened to be a little girl's birthday party going on. You know the kind—fifty million balloons, all lovingly inflated by the girl's mother herself, a cake the size of Agrabah, and approximately fifteen girls whose combined voices make you want to find the nearest third-floor window and jump out of it. The guy who'd trained me, Demyx Gomez, was working the registers with me, and we were both kind of mesmerized by this girl. The only real conclusion I could come to was that she was a mutant of some sort. Most likely an alien, one who requires vast amounts of fat and carbs to function properly. It was the only way to explain how she managed to down an entire eighteen-inch pie by herself.

"It's a wonder she hasn't bankrupted her parents yet," I commented, absentmindedly twirling one of Roxas' five-cent ballpoint pens between my fingers.

"Give her time—she's young yet," Demyx shot back, with his cocky-ass grin that would have looked so damn ridiculous on anyone else.

One of the first things I realized when I came in for training was that my new co-workers were fucking awesome. I'm talking cooler than midnight re-runs of While You Were Out, cooler than finding a pair of shoes at the thrift store that don't smell and fit you like a glove, cooler than finding out the guy you had sex with last night didn't actually have chlamydia. Yeah, I know. Sounds impossible, but it's true. Like I said, Demyx was the one training me. He's got this ridiculous haircut (not that I have a whole hell of a lot of room to talk, but whatever) that's sort of a cross between a mullet and a mohawk, both of which went out of style before he was even born, and apparently he spends most of his time outside of 3.14 trying to land a record deal with his mad sitar skills, whatever the hell that is. He's pretty much exactly like me—dumb as a rock and willing to do whatever strikes his fancy as long as he's at least fifty percent sure it won't kill him. And, since I am awesome, he becomes awesome-by-association. It's a pretty fucking sick system, if I do say so myself.

There were a whole bunch of others, too. This pink-haired guy named Marluxia who practically broke my gaydar the first time I saw him, this kind of quiet dude name Zexion, and this crazy-cool British fool named Luxord. The only girl I'd seen so far was this short, platinum blond chick called Naminé. I couldn't help but wonder if her parents were born in the sixties—if you're not getting a 'flower-child' vibe from a name like Naminé, you might want to lay off on the crack. It does bad stuff to you, man.

I'd meet more of the workers as time went by, but those guys were enough to convince me that maybe working at 3.14 wouldn't be so bad. I mean, the pay was good, the people were good, the restaurant was pretty fucking swanky, if I may be so bold. The only problem was Roxas Shibizaki himself. See, I was about 86.5 percent sure he hated my guts. Which made me wonder why he'd even bothered hiring me, but there you have it. Now, usually, I'd assume the guy was just an asshole and move on with my life. But he wasn't. He was pretty much just an asshole to me, and that made it kind of hard to move on. Despite being so fucking fabulous that it's hard to find a fault, I really do care what people think about me. He tolerated Demyx, Zexion and Luxord, and he was even sort of nice to Marluxia (even though the guy flirted with him like his dick would be in mortal peril if he didn't). Naminé was on a completely different level, and I wasn't sure if he was just trying to get in her pants or if he legitimately liked her. It bugged me. And I tend to have a really hard time letting go of things that get under my skin.

"I'll bet you five bucks they order another pizza on their way out."

"Are you stupid? No way am I taking that bet. I can see it in their eyes already," Demyx said, picking at his fingernails.

It was something termed the 'Pizza Gleam', and no, I'm not making that shit up. The Pizza Gleam was this look people got in their eyes when they were about to pounce. Like a white-trash housewife after the Black Friday deals at J.C. Penny's, people get fucking nuts about pizza. We sell by the slice and by the pie, and if you see two people come in at the same time, both eying that last slice of meat-lovers, you can bet there's going to be a throwdown. What were they always telling you to do in school? 'Know the warning signs, know how to take shelter, and keep a store of emergency supplies'? Oh, wait. That's for nuclear fallout. Whatever. It's pretty much the same fucking thing, anyway.

"Damn. I need money."

"Running low on hooker funds?"

"Hardy har har, jerk. If you must know, I need cat food."

It was true. Fat-ass Francisco had polished off the last of his Purina that morning, and if he didn't get any dinner he was going to throw one hell of a hissy fit-pun absolutely intended, by the way—and getting a job did not, unfortunately, mean instantly getting money. Bi-monthly paychecks were all well and good, but the first two weeks kind of suck ass. It's when you're so poor you gradually forget the taste of anything other than cup ramen.

"I've got some at my house, if you want it. My old roommate took her cat but left the food, and it's not like I have any use for it. I tried eating it when I was a kid and don't plan on doing it again any time soon. That stuff was rank," he laughed.

"I think we all ate it at one point."

It was really easy to laugh at 3.14. Sure, there was plenty to bitch about, but when you got right down to it, everyone had fun. Even the ten year old who had nothing to look forward to in life except for an extra two hundred pounds and a heart-attack at thirty five had a big fucking grin on her face. It was good. For the first time in a long time, I sort of let myself think that maybe this might not be so bad. Maybe it wouldn't suck as much as I thought it would.

()

Since we're going to be spending some quality time with each other—the story of 3.14 is a long and tasty one—I figure I should probably tell you a bit about myself, other than the fact that I'm 6'3", born with riotous red hair and smoking hot.

I've got a brother. A real, flesh and blood brother. His name is Reno, and he's pretty much an exact duplicate of me. We're both kind of assholes, kind of stupid, overly-trusting on occasion, and both of us grew up in the same shitty apartment in Hollow Bastion. The only real difference is how we decided to live our lives after we got out of it. Unlike me, Reno's never had any problems holding on to a job—he's been working at the same place for the last five years, and it's not looking like he's going to quit any time soon. One of his college friends, Tifa Lockhart, this chick with the biggest tits and the smallest waist I've ever laid eyes on, opened this bar called Seventh Heaven, and Reno and his buddy Rude were the first and only people she ever considered asking to be her bartenders. Let me tell you something, my brother is a bad-ass. He worked for this company called the Turks during college as a security guard, and I think he's found his calling. He gets to serve people alcohol, get paid, and take his frustration out on the customers who don't cooperate. Seems like a pretty fucking sweet set-up to me. You wouldn't find me setting one foot in his shoes, though.

When we were little, people were always thinking we were twins. We had the same ridiculous hair, the same stupid grins, the same trouble-making attitude. Like two peas in a fucking pod. You want to know about the face tattoos? Mine were voluntary, his were not. Chew on that for a while. He used to be into some bad stuff, in with some nasty people who didn't give a shit what he wanted to do with his life. They got to him in high school, when he was still kind of a loser. You know, not much in the way of muscle, backbone, or self-esteem. Can you blame him? I'd hate myself too, if I were him. I _did_. This asshole named Rufus Shinra ran one of the biggest underground mafia groups in Hollow Bastion, and he must have seen something he liked when he looked at my fuck-up of a brother. They got their claws in him, and made it perfectly fucking clear that they had no intentions of ever letting him go.

He never said it specifically, but I always assumed the tattoos were some sort of initiation shit or something like that. All I remember is him coming back home, blood running down his face like he was bawling the stuff. If I wasn't already such a screwed-up seventh grader, that would have been enough to do it pretty well. A week after I turned eighteen, I got my own pretty pictures inked into my face and got the hell out of Hollow Bastion. I still loved my brother—whether I followed him to Traverse Town for my sake or his was something I never really cared to figure out.

Reno also happens to be an alcoholic. Not a big one, but enough that if he goes long enough without it, he turns into a total bitch. Supposedly Tifa doesn't let him drink on the job, but she'd never be able to fire him even if he did, so it's really as empty as a threat can possibly get. For him, working at that bar is like a kid getting a summer job in a candyshop with all the free sweets he can eat, and he's always been pretty fucking excited about it. I never blamed him for it, not even when he came home reeking of the nastiest, cheapest booze he could get his hands on, not even when he told me he hated me, told me he hated looking at me because I reminded him of _them_. Of our parents. We've never talked about it—I don't really do that sentimental emotional shit—and maybe he doesn't even remember. I do that a lot. Stress about things that no one else give two shits about. Don't judge me. I'm sure you've got your own nice, happy share of personality flaws you don't like to talk about.

Anyway, enough about my sorry-ass brother and my sorry-ass self. The truth is, Seventh Heaven was widely understood to be the best bar in the city. I'm not telling you that out of some misguided loyalty to Tifa, just so we're clear. I hate that bitch. If I didn't loathe the word enabler so fucking much, that's what I'd call her. But I have to hand it to her, she did manage to run a pretty sick establishment. So, when Demyx invited me to go out with some of the other guys after my first official cash-register close (don't be jealous), of course that's where we went. The only other options were some trashy truck stops along the outskirts of town or the strip clubs at the end of the Second District. Usually I'm all for that shit, but for some odd reason watching people stuff their faces all day just doesn't get my blood pumping. I'd probably be sitting there the whole time wondering what the chick giving me a lap dance likes on her pizza. Talk about a mood killer. "Hey, Sister, you look like a double sausage kind of girl. Am I right? I'm right, aren't I?" You know it's bad when you don't even fucking _mean_your sexual innuendo anymore, and I've gotten gayer as the years go on. A lot of the stuff that used to be fun and entertaining had fallen into the "mildly nauseating" category.

They invited Roxas along too, even though I would have much preferred that they didn't. It ended up not mattering anyway, though, because he instantly shot Demyx down. Muttered some shit about how he had to count up the expenditures or something. Whatever. You could tell by the look that he shot my way that 'expenditures' were definitely not why he didn't want to be stuck with us all night.

"Man, Roxas never comes out with us. He could use a night out—loosen him up a little," Demyx said, tugging his coat on in the employee locker room. I wanted to add that it might loosen up that fucking stick our manager had up his ass, too, but I didn't really think that would be appropriate. And you know how much I care about propriety. Luxord had bailed on us too, and Naminé had left an hour or two before, so it was me, Demyx, Marluxia (the rest of the guys called him Marly, because they were too fucking lazy to push out those last two syllables) and Zexion. I was a bit surprised that Zexion even wanted to come in the first place. He didn't seem like the bar type, I have to admit. I figured he'd rather spend his free time jacking off to pictures of elves in lingerie or some shit like that. Whatever. To each, his own, I suppose. Besides, there'd always be time to jack off afterwards.

"I think that guy hates me." We'd found a table tucked away in the corner, and I'd taken a seat after attempting to make eye contact with my brother. I liked to pretend that he just never noticed me, even though I'm sure he must have. Don't you fucking dare burst my bubble of self-deception, either, because believing that he was the most unobservant fucker on the entire planet was better than believing that he just didn't give a shit about me anymore.

"Who?" Marly asked, plopping down a beer next to Demyx and setting one at his own spot.

"Roxas. He keeps giving me the nastiest fucking looks."

"Roxas doesn't hate anybody, man. He's just, you know, not very emotional," Demyx added, as he wiped away a beer mustache from his lip.

"He hasn't had much time to adjust to running the restaurant, either. I think it takes more of a toll on him than he wants us to know."

As it turns out, I never quite grew out of that childish phase when your face shows everything you're thinking. Whether I'm mad, or angry or confused or whatever the hell else, it's pretty damn easy to see on my face. That being said, it doesn't take a genius to figure out if I don't have a clue what you're talking about, and Zexion certainly wasn't an idiot. I never understood those jerks who pretend to follow a conversation when they have no idea what anyone was actually talking about—in the end, they always just come out looking like assholes—so I never bothered. The way I see it, it's my conversation-partner's fault for overestimating my mental faculties in the first place.

"Huh?" I added in, just to ensure that they caught on to my being completely clueless.

"Yeah, man, Roxas only started managing the restaurant...what was it, a year ago? Right, Marly, it was a year, right?"

At the time, it didn't occur to me to wonder why Marluxia would have been the authority on the subject. It probably should have, but then these whole shenanigans wouldn't have been nearly as fun.

"Yeah. Last November."

"What," I asked, "did he buy it or something? Isn't he a little young to be venturing out into the fabulous world of pizza?"

"His parents used to run it—he inherited it from them."

"Inherited?"

Now, don't get me wrong, I know that my childhood was not a reliable sample. I know that some people grew up with loving parents, white picket fences, dogs, the whole shebang. I get that. Just because I didn't have any of that doesn't mean that no one else did. Roxas, for example, practically screams loving upbringing. He couldn't be any more obvious if he ran naked through the streets shouting "my parents tape my report card to the fridge". I'm sure he got a lovingly packed lunch—complete with a note from mom—all the way through his senior year of high school.

So, it hit me kind of hard to find out that his parents were dead. I couldn't help thinking that it should have been my waste-of-space mother, or my bastard of a father, who'd died instead—maybe it was kind of an asshole thing to think, but I never said I wasn't. The only thing my mother ever did for me was pop me out of her body, and that's certainly more than my father ever did. No one cared about my spelling tests (except for maybe Reno, a long time ago). And it's not like my parents were out there 'contributing to society' or anything, unless you count lining the dealers' fucking pockets as an act of charity and a bolstering of the local economy. At that point, even though I still had no idea how old my boss was, I figured he certainly wasn't old enough to be having to deal with that kind of shit.

"Yeah. There was an accident awhile back. Really nasty stuff, though I don't think they ever figured out exactly what happened."

Now, usually I'm about as subtle as a rocket-propelled grenade. I don't stay out of people's business, I don't mind personal space, and I couldn't really care less if my probing makes you uncomfortable. But Marluxia put me on edge. Which, let me tell you, is really fucking hard to do. I didn't get where I am by pussy-footing around shit, or getting freaked out by pink-haired co-workers. No sir (ma'am?). But there was something in his eyes that made me feel just a little fucking twitchy, and so I steered away from the topic a lot faster than my intrusive personality usually would have allowed.

"That's awful, man. No wonder he's such a little shit," I said, stealing a drink from Demyx's beer.

"Hey! Get your own, if you want it so bad," He said, sliding it far enough away from me that I wouldn't be able to sneak any more. "Anyway, don't let Roxas get you down, Ax. I'm sure he'll warm up to you soon enough, just give him a few weeks. He's always a little stiff at first with new guys, you know?"

I turned to look at the bar, where my brother was pouring out some fruity-looking pink thing into a fancy glass, and considered ordering something for myself. I knew I'd be nursing it until we left, but at least it would give me something else to pay attention to. "You're probably right," I replied.

()

As it turned out, Demyx was full of shit. Was I surprised? Only slightly. Roxas didn't 'warm up to me'. As a matter of fact, he seemed to hate me more and more with every shift. I'm a thick skinned guy, and no way in hell was I going to let the opinion of some snot-nosed brat matter to me, but it _was_ confusing the shit out of me. I mean, what kind of idiot hires someone he hates to work at his dead parents' restaurant? Even I'm not that fucking contradictory, and on occasion I'm pretty damn bad. He didn't make my job harder, which I can only imagine is because he knew he'd be shooting himself in the foot if he did, but he just gave me these...looks. Don't you even judge me—I've had Francisco long enough to be able to recognize condescending glares when I see 'em. It's like he wanted to ask me why I hadn't done him the courtesy of dropping dead yet, but really didn't want to waste the breath. Asshole. He couldn't even bother telling me what his beef with me was.

As much as it might shock you, Roxas being a dick didn't make me want to quit. I know, I know, it's hard to believe. But, after that first day, I really_ liked_ working at 3.14. I liked hanging out with Demyx at the cash registers. I liked making fun of Zexion turning his nose up at the mess when he had to bus tables. I liked making bets on how many little kids would pull on Marluxia's hair on any given day. As the week went on, I ended up meeting everyone who worked there, and they were all pretty fucking cool. The only one I didn't like was this mega-bitch named Larxene, with these fucking...antennae-things coming out of her head like she was some sort of insect.

I'd been working there for exactly four days before the weird shit started going down. It's not exactly unusual, as it really seems like my mere presence induces weird shit, but this was weird even for me. The weird shit in question came in the form of two clearly closeted gay police officers, decked out in full uniform, who walked through the front door sometime around one o'clock and took the corner booth. That in itself wasn't that odd—I can't blame them for coming to a pizza place on their lunch break, because if I had money to burn and didn't work here myself, I'd probably come by to grab some artery-clog-on-a-plate too—but what happened afterward definitely was. I turned to Zexion, who was attempting to squeeze past my bootylicious butt with a giant bus tub on his way back to the kitchens, and nudged his shoulder, smirking when he turned around.

"How much you want to bet those two are secretly banging each other's lights out?" I asked, nodding in the direction of the two men in uniform.

He took a moment to look where I was pointing, and I'm pretty sure he went completely white. I mean, he's so fucking white in the first place that sometimes it's hard to tell, but I was as sure as I could be.

"Shit."

Now, tell me what you'd be thinking right now. You have this shifty, quiet guy with pretty obviously dyed hair (shut up, asshole, I already told you mine is 100% natural) who freaks out when he sees the fuzz. A plus B equals C, or some shit like that, and C seemed to point pretty decisively to a guy who's had some run-ins with the cops before. Now, unlike you losers, I don't judge people based on bare-bones facts, and so this handy equation wasn't enough to convince me entirely, but it definitely seemed a little suspicious. The way he scuttled into the back like some sort of rat, clutching his bus tub like it was his last possession didn't help much.

I guess in order for this next part to work, I should explain a little more about how the restaurant actually operates. It's both a to-go and a sit down place, so when you walk in the front door, you've got two options. You can either come up to the front, where I'm usually twiddling my thumbs, ready to greet you with a charming, debonair smile, or you can sit down at one of the booths and hope for some semi-decent service. So, that's why, when the cops sat down at one of the booths, it wasn't my job to deal with them.

Since it was a little bit after the lunch rush, we only had one waitress working—Naminé. I have to admit, Naminé is probably the nicest person I've ever met in my life, and I'm not just saying that. She couldn't have been any older than Roxas, but she had this way about her that made everyone in her immediate vicinity feel like less of a loser. Like somehow her maturity rubbed off on you temporarily and you didn't think fart jokes were all that funny anymore. She was also really fucking talented—I'm talking professionally talented—at drawing shit. There was this huge mural on the outside wall of the restaurant of what I can only assume was every single person who worked there at the time, and it's amazing. I don't usually go for art much, but even I could tell that she's got skill. So, that's why it was kind of strange when she turned to the cops' table, and immediately turned back around and walked away. Call me an idiot, but I really don't think anyone can take an order that fucking fast, not even Naminé. Weird shit, I'm telling you, and it only got weirder from there.

Because I'm the kind of guy who likes knowing everything about everybody (some might call me a snoop, but I like to think of myself as a professional knowledge collector), it only made sense that I'd zero in on the situation. It's not like I ever plan on ratting anyone out if I find out something juicy, but I just like knowing. So, when Roxas came out of the back room and headed for that table, even though he'd warned us all not to bug him unless it was an emergency, I tuned everything else out. I wasn't going to miss a second of that shit.

"Hey, Roxas. It's been awhile." The brunet spoke first, with a deep voice that absolutely did not make me melt in my shoes. Definitely not. He had this big-ass scar across the bridge of his nose that looked ridiculously painful, and I had to wonder what a cop's gotta do to get a beauty like that. And here I was thinking the fuzz either sat behind a desk and chowed down on carbs all day or parked their asses in a school zone, waiting to ticket people. My bad.

"I believe I was very clear when I asked you two not to come here anymore."

Well, well, Roxas. Going toe-to-toe with the local law enforcement? Color me fucking surprised.

"We felt like getting a pizza. Your place happens to be close to the station."

"Please don't insult me by thinking I'd accept that as an excuse. I'm not an idiot, Officer Leonhart. There are other places you could have gone. I already told you that I don't know anything, and now I would really like to be left alone. Lunch is on the house today, but please don't come back."

"Listen, Roxas," the blond said, speaking up for the first time, "we might be here primarily because it's our job, but we're also concerned about you. All we're asking you for is information. That's it."

"Right. Well, I believe we've beaten that horse to death, Officers. I'll send Naminé out to be your server—feel free to order whatever you'd like."

Roxas disappeared back into the office, and I didn't see him until it was closing time and I had to give him the cash drawer. He didn't look any different, really, but somehow he did seem kind of tired. It wasn't the first time it had ever happened to me, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last, but somehow I was really fucking annoyed that everyone seemed to know something I didn't.

()


	3. And That is Why I'm Gay

Roxas by Night

Chapter 3: And That is Why I'm Gay

There are a lot of reasons why I don't like having sex with women. The main one is, of course, that I tried it once and most definitely don't ever fucking want to try it again, but there are offshoots of that. Like, for instance, the breasts. They're right there, you know. In your face. Loud and proud, and kind of jiggly. No thank you. I'm all for going out to the strip club with the guys every now and again, but that's about as far as I really go these days. On top of the breasts, there's the fact that pretty much every woman I've ever known well enough to judge has been a total bitch. Take my mother, for example. Or Larxene, who seems to get some sadistic pleasure out of putting people on hold and never picking up the phone again. Or my landlord, who might not ask a lot of questions about where the rent money comes from, but certainly doesn't make a habit of exchanging pleasantries in the hallway either. And I'm not even going to get into the whole vagina thing. But sometimes I need a reminder why sleeping with a female is such a bad idea, and some women are more than happy to oblige me.

"I ordered three pizzas, and only two of them were delivered. Look, I have the receipt."

Let's ignore the fact that I remember Demyx—working as delivery boy in place of Luxord, who caught a case of hangover-itis and couldn't come in to work—walking out the door an hour ago with those very three pizzas in his arms. Let's ignore the fact that, if she really didn't get all of her pizzas, she would have bitched him out when he got to her house, not a half hour later at the restaurant. And let's also ignore the fact that I don't really give a shit either way. I'd promised Roxas that I'd try to be a bit more civil, and I was trying. Really. Don't laugh.

"Ma'am, unless you have proof that you didn't get your pizza, there's not really anything I can do."

I refrained from telling her that she didn't look like she needed that third pizza anyway, if her double-chin was anything to go by.

"I ordered three pizzas, I didn't get three pizzas. What's so hard to figure out about that? I want a refund."

"Why didn't you ask the delivery man where your third pizza was, Ma'am? I'm sure he would have gladly worked something out for you."

"I didn't notice until he drove away," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Do I really look that stupid? You know what, don't answer that. How do you not realize that you've only got two pizzas in your arms? Even a fucking blind person would have been able to figure it out, and the only handicaps this bitch seemed to have were a compulsive lying disorder and the personality of a shrew. She didn't notice? Really, she thinks I'm going to fall for that shit? 

"That seems unlikely, Ma'am."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

I'm not entirely sure why, but I suddenly found myself picturing what it would be like to have sex with this woman. It's a slippery slope, something you'd know if you've done it (which you probably have; you can't tell me there haven't been times). I could picture this woman's poor husband—probably a short, middle-aged, balding businessman who works for a used tire company—lying in bed with bitch-slap prints on his face courtesy of his fat, domineering wife. I did my best to suppress a shiver, but I'm not sure it worked entirely well. 

"No, Ma'am." Yes, I am. "But I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do." Bitch.

"That damned delivery boy stole my pizza! I knew he was trouble, really. How could he not be, with hair like that."

"Ma'am, the employees here get free pizza. There's no reason for us to steal from the customers."

"Don't you try to justify his behavior!" Her cheeks were getting red, and she was starting to look a bit like a large, wrinkly-ass fruit.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Ma'am."

At that point, I'd been working at 3.14 for almost a month. I'd shown up for every one of my shifts, and I really had been doing my best to clean up my mouth while I was on the clock. Sure, an occasional 'fuck' slipped out, but what can you do. I mean, I was practically raised on cussing. When my mother weaned me off breast-milk, she started me on adult language. So, sue me if it's a little hard to let go. But let me tell you, this woman was seriously trying my fucking patience. 

"Oh, so now you're going to tell me what to do? Great customer service you've got here, jerk."

I remember my high school counselor telling me that a good way to get rid of my anger was to count backwards from ten. While I did, I had to think about why I was angry, and who I was angry with. If that person was angry with me as well, I had to think about why _they_ were angry, and if I had done anything that I should apologize for. By the time I got down to one, I should have a better handle on the situation. Well, I tried. When I got down to one, I realized that this woman was still a bitch, and nothing had gotten any better. In fact, the counting probably just made it worse, because now she thought I was just fucking ignoring her.

"Would you like me to get my manager, Ma'am?"

"Is your manager as useless as you are? Because if so, I think I'll pass."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I'm gay.

"Is there a problem here?" Roxas took that moment to emerge from where he'd been lurking all morning (either the office or the kitchen, most likely) to actually help out his poor, overworked employee. I can't say I was glad to see him, but I _was_ about five seconds away from ripping this woman a new one, so I guess his timing wasn't all that bad.

"Oh great, another hopelessly inept minimum-wage worker. Perfect."

"Axel, why don't you go help Demyx in the back." He said, sparing me a brief glance. You could tell from his tone and the look in his eyes that it wasn't a suggestion. "I'm the owner Ma'am. What can I do for you?"

Part of me felt bad about walking away, and leaving him to that harpy. But, whatever. I blame my shitty childhood.

That night, I didn't go out with the guys. No matter how craptastic my apartment was, sometimes I just needed some space and a cat to snuggle. And you know what? I had a lot on my fucking mind. If you think about it (don't strain yourself if it's too tough for you), today had been the perfect opportunity for Roxas to get rid of me without feeling like he was just making up an excuse to fire me. Let me blow up at a customer, let me drop a few f-bombs here and there, and bam. No more Axel. No more reason for him to get premature wrinkles from glaring at me all the fucking time. No more drain on his precious pocketbook in the form of an arrogant firecrotch.

But he didn't. He'd seen that I was having a hard time, and he'd come over to help me out. Jesus H. Christ, could the guy _get_ any more fucking contradictory? A short stack with a bite to him, who hated me most of the time but didn't take the easy out? What the hell, Roxas?

At that point, Fransisco decided that he was sick of being ignored, and started on his favorite pass-time of chewing on my hair, so I pushed aside the so-called 'Roxas Conundrum' for another day, and turned my attention to much more cuddly subject matter.

I met Sora Shibizaki the next day. Now, you might ask, 'who the hell is Sora Shibizaki and why the fuck would I care?' Well, in case you forgot, my employer's name is Roxas Shibizaki, and Sora just happens to be his kid brother. He came in when I was ringing up a customer (surprise, surprise) and I didn't think much about it at first. In general, my domain is the cash register, and the rest of the restaurant is pretty much off my radar most of the time—unless it's really slow and I've already gotten tired of pissing Demyx off for entertainment. So, when Sora came in with his sexy friend who was way too good looking to be in high school, and a girl with a glaringly red yet admittedly stylish haircut, I didn't notice. Sue me. Why would I have bothered taking time out of my day to be interested in what looked like a group of normal high school students?

I could tell they were high schoolers because of the uniforms, by the way, black, high collared blazers, black pants, white undershirt, unbuttoned just a little if they were feeling particularly deviant. It was pretty much the same for the girls, only minus the pants and plus a skirt and a pair of knee high socks. From what I gather, Traverse Town High isn't some ritzy private school or anything, but the kids are forced to wear uniforms so they aren't differentiated by fashion. It sounds like a load of bull shit to me, but whatever floats their boat and keeps the superiors happy, I guess.

As my customer lumbered his way out of the restaurant, practically drowning in five boxes of pizza, I watched Xion, one of the other waitresses, sidle over to Sora's table. To be honest, I was not impressed. I mean, the kid was kind of cute, in a let's-go-watch-Disney-movies-together kind of way, but his hair was even more fucking ridiculous than mine. He had the worst permanent sex-hair I'd ever seen, and believe me when I say I've got a good base of reference. It stuck up in these ridiculous brown spikes that could not possibly have been natural. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a nasty-ass pedophile or anything like that, and I definitely don't go for little icky high schoolers, but when I got a good look at that kid's eyes, I may have died a little bit. Because those babies were fucking _blue_. And I go for blue, every single fucking time.

"Hey, Sora. School out already?" Xion asked, pulling out her server's notebook and flipping it open to a new page.

"Nah, we ditched eighth period. It's just history class anyway, and Kairi wanted to get pizza, so..." He grinned up at her, and his smile sort of ate his face.

"You know how Roxas feels about you ditching class."

"Well, Roxas is just a big wet-blanket. It's not like we're going to fail the class just because we don't go a few times a month."

"You know your brother just worries about you, Sora," the red-head piped in, putting her hand on his shoulder.

And that was how I found out that Roxas, my contradictory asshole of a boss, had a brother. It made sense when I thought about it, really. I mean, I'd only seen one other pair of eyes like that in my life, and they belonged to that blond bombshell in the kitchen. I also should have assumed that if his parents had liked having sex together enough to get pregnant once, they probably liked it enough to do it twice. It really shouldn't have taken me by surprise like it did, but what can you do. At least his brother didn't seem like such a jerk.

"I get it. He just needs to relax a little sometimes, too."

"Well," Xion said, a little on the wrong side of rudely abrupt, "your funeral. Anyway, what can I get for you deviants?"

"The usual ok with you guys?" Sora asked, turning to look at his friends for a confirmation.

"You know how I like it, Sora," the silver-haired guy sitting next to him (from here on out, he shall be deemed "Sexy Friend") said, and I think I felt a little shiver go down my spine. I mean, I'm not a girl or anything, but I _can_ appreciate a voice that attractive when I hear it. Especially when it's full of barely masked innuendo, as this guy's was. And fuck me, he had a face to match.

"Don't be gross. Anyway, Xion, we'll have an extra-large with pepperoni and pineapple. And extra cheese."

I took a moment to wonder how anyone could be as good looking as Sora and his friends if their 'usual' involved extra anything—other than an extra liposuction treatment after the meal, of course. They say kids these days have high metabolisms or some shit like that, and seeing some of the high schoolers that come through 3.14, I could almost believe it.

"I'll go ring it in. You want me to try to find Roxas and send him out?" She asked, dropping her notebook into her apron pocket.

"Don't worry about it. I see him at home often enough anyway."

Did you ever read those comic books about that guy Peter Parker? You know, the fool who could turn into some fucking crazy web-spinning, pizza-delivering superhero? I used to be really into comic books when I was a kid (I know, it's hard to imagine me being able to so much as pick up a book without spontaneously combusting, but I did). We lived a couple of blocks away from the Hollow Bastion Public Library, and they had a pretty kick-ass collection. Anyway, Peter Parker and me ended up having something other than a love for pizza in common—he had his spidey-senses, and I had my Roxy-senses. Somehow I developed this freakish ability to just _know_ if my bitchy manager was nearby. So, the second I started getting that little prickle on the back of my neck, I straightened up and prepared myself for what was likely to be a nice bit of gossip about my employer.

"Sora," Roxas said as he rounded the counter, looking for all the fucking world like some starving housecat rounding up a trapped mouse. "Why aren't you in school right now?"

"Come on, Rox, it's just one period. Cut me some slack," Sora replied. At least the poor little mousey had the smarts to look a little nervous.

"Are you a complete idiot? What kind of moron skips class and then comes to a restaurant owned by the only person who actually cares whether he goes to school or not!"

I have to admit to being relatively impressed. I'd never seen Roxas get angry before, but apparently he went a little Incredible Hulk when he did. Forgive the massive amount of superhero references, but I went through a stage when I judged everything that happened to me by means of what comic book it related to. And even though Roxas didn't turn green or anything like that, and even though his shirt remained intact and firmly on (bummer), he was still fucking scary. His eyes narrowed, and he set his feet, and he looked like he could kick anyone's ass who dared tell him to move out of the way.

"Woah, Rox, calm down. It's not a big enough deal to get this worked up over."

"Lord help me, Sora, if you tell me what to do again, I am going to smack you." He lifted his hand up to rub at his eye again, a weird little habit I'd noticed the boss-man had. Instead of bitching out his brother more, he turned to Sexy Friend with a look that could have probably sent a lesser man into a coma. "Listen, Riku, I don't really care what you do with your life, but don't you dare drag Sora down with you to do it."

"Excuse me?" Sexy Friend (who will now, apparently, be known as 'Riku', slightly less descriptive but probably more appropriate, not that I really give a shit) replied, looking acceptably indignant.

"You heard me. Anyway, you guys are already here, so I'll go make your damn pizza, but if you come back here again next time you feel like ditching school, none of you are going to like what happens."

I wouldn't get the whole story for a long time, but back then it seemed like Roxas was being really fucking harsh. I mean, fuck, the number of classes I decided not to go to in high school probably numbered in the several hundreds. More likely than not, my teachers passed me just because they didn't want to deal with me anymore. I put the 'D' in 'deviant', man. And this kid doesn't go to one history class and gets publicly bitched out for it? He seemed like an alright kid—I felt bad for him, having a dick like that for a brother.

"You know, Rox, never mind about the food. I'll see you at home later. Hopefully when you feel like being less of an asshole. Let's go, guys."

I watched them walk out feeling like I'd just been watching some train-wreck of a mid-morning television drama—too ridiculous and too addicting to change the channel.

"Way to go, Roxas." Xion said in her usual monotone, moving on to the booth next to the one Sora and his friends had just vacated, where the customers were looking like they'd just witnessed a vicious murder. Hell, maybe they had. The vicious murder of a high-school boy's hard-won pride.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not big on the whole 'psychoanalysis' shit, if you weren't able to figure that out already. I don't like looking into people that deeply, because something I've realized over the years is that most people are one hell of fucked up. Take my brother's best friend from high school, for example, this guy named Tseng. He was born in China, one of those kids whose parents had trekked across the Pacific when he was a baby to seek greener pastures. He looked like the nicest kid in the world—always smiling, always doing his homework, shit like that. One day, Reno goes over to Tseng's house and finds him hanging in his closet. From his neck. So, you know what? I'd rather not know what kind of shit was going through that kid's brain. I'd rather not know why he decided a short drop and a quick stop was the answer. Tseng had problems, and that's all I really ever needed to know. If I spent more time thinking about how much other peoples' lives sucked, I'd never be happy again.

So when Roxas turned around to head back to the kitchen, and he had the most pathetic, most pissed-off, most frustrated, most self-hating expression I've ever seen on anyone's face, it surprised me that I wanted to know why. I mean, of course it was because of the conversation with his brother, but there was obviously something else going on. The brief exchange I'd had with Demyx, Zexion, and Marluxia over beers hadn't given me much to go on, and I'd never been good at putting pieces together, but I wanted to try. Roxas was like a giant, sexy-restaurant-owner-shaped jigsaw puzzle, and I'd always wanted to try my hand at one of those.

Enter: Axel Holmes, Gossip-Monger Extraordinaire.


End file.
